A day away

In just over one month, Loaf will be 6.

A few months after that, Peanut turns 8.

Six? Eight?

These ages, especially 8, are starting to resemble big-kid ages. Granted, it was a different world, but at 8 or 9, I was walking home – a full half mile – from the bus stop by myself. I wore a house key around my neck and unlocked the front door by myself and entered a home that would be empty for another two hours.

A very different world, indeed, but still . . . I did that when I was just a year or so older than Peanut.

My daughters are growing up at a remarkable rate. Their ages seem impossible because they were born, like, yesterday and there is just NO WAY they can be (almost) 6 and 8.

Yet they are.

The princess dresses go largely unworn these days, replaced by Harry Potter capes and magic wands. Picture books sit collecting dust in favor of chapter books.

* * *
Recently, a friend sent me a scanned picture of our preschool class – a group of four-year-olds dressed in their Sunday finest captured in black-and-white. I e-mailed it to my mom.

“I remember like yesterday,” she wrote back.

Yesterday.

I wonder if a mother’s yesterday ever gets any farther away. Not the actual yesterday – the one where you got up, made breakfast, went to work, etc., but the yesterday that exists forever in your mind recalling the day when you rocked a tiny child to sleep, stroking her hair and murmuring lullabies in her ear. The day you put your child in her best dress and sent her to school for a class picture.

I hope not, because facing these big-kid ages, followed by the tough middle and high school years, then college and finally, adulthood, seems a lot more palatable knowing I can always close my eyes and bring back the past – recalling those precious baby coos, feeling that soft hair under my fingertips and taking in that sweet baby smell.

Like yesterday.

Give a little, gain a lot

Today I was a chaperone on my daughter’s class trip. We went to a local community theater to see “Click, Clack, Moo.” I was a bit concerned, even skeptical, of how a 10-page children’s story could be transformed into a 60-minute play, but it was actually quite cute. There were songs and dancing and a lesson at the end about compromising with others.

Compromise is a funny thing. Of course, we all do it and it’s an important skill, but in obviously there are times when we’d rather not. And I know there are some things on which I don’t want my daughters compromising – their dreams, their goals, the person they choose to marry.

I sat on the bus ride back from the theater with Peanut nuzzled against me. She was so excited to have me there as a chaperone – so proud to have her friends see me there with her – present. A mom who is present.

I know the day will come when she won’t want me around her friends. She’ll roll those big gray eyes and ask me to drop her off at the corner and, whatever you do, don’t kiss me, Mom. I remember being that way with my own mother. I’m sure it wasn’t easy on her.

But today, she was sweet and snuggly and so very much mine. When the day comes that she doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll oblige, I suppose. I’ll wait in the shadows, guiding when needed, loving always. But giving her the space she needs to grow. To develop. To dream. To live.

Because that’s what parents do.

We compromise.

Holidazed

So I looked at the calendar today and do you know what it said?

Somehow, it is December 14.

I am not at all sure how that happened because, like, yesterday, it was Thanksgiving. And the day before that it was Halloween. And just a couple of weeks before that we were swimming and picnicking and chasing fireflies under warm July skies.

I’ve had a crazy roller coaster year at work. All summer I felt like I was falling in and endless trough there – faster and faster toward some unknown oblivion ¬– and then somehow, finally, things are back on track. I’m drowning in work lately, which is a good thing in nearly every way except that elements of my personal life are unraveling like a cheap Christmas sweater.

Somehow, I’ve managed to get a fair amount of holiday preparations done, but when I still think of all I have left to do – baking and wrapping and a trip to see Santa live and in-person – I feel a little woozy.

Mark and the girls––my God--they are my salvation. For every second they might make me crazy there are 1,000 more when they pull me back from the brink. I am truly blessed.

Today, I had to drive out to Pennsylvania for a meeting over two hours away. Sitting in the car in some seriously snarly traffic on the way back, I could feel the stress level rising. So. Much. To. Do. I don’t have time to sit in traffic. I don’t have these minutes to spare.

But sitting there, I found my mind wandering back to them. Mark’s sweet boyishness, Peanut’s beautiful bright eyes, Loaf’s million-watt smile. I thought of them at home – imagined what they might be doing without me. And before I knew it, I was home.

I tiptoed up the hall and slowly opened Peanut’s door. She was still awake—barely. Loaf on the other hand was jovial – bouncing on her bed and delaying putting on her jammies.

Cries of “Mommy!” Small arms thrown around my neck. Smootchy kisses on my cheeks. School recaps and sweet smiles.

Another day over.

So much to do.

And so much to look forward to.

Firsts

The school year has begun! Peanut started last Tuesday and Loaf went this past Monday. I'm finally sitting down and catching my breath, so here are a few pictures.

First, Peanut went of to kindergarten (!). She was extremely excited and got on the bus without any hesitation. Here are a few pictures from her big day:

At the bus stop



Getting on the bus



::sniff

Then Loaf started preschool in the "Fours" class, meaning she'll go five mornings a week! Where is the time going?!?

Outside before heading off to school



In her classroom on the first day



It's crazy to me that the summer is over and the year nearly is too. Didn't we just celebrate Christmas? And Easter? Wasn't that, like, last week?

Sentimental value

My daughter lost her second tooth today.

Last night while brushing her teeth, it hung at an odd angle - askew from the rest of her teeth - and I knew it would not be long. I told her, "You will lose that tooth before you go to school on Tuesday."

It fell out of her mouth - literally, with no effort from her - before breakfast this morning. She wrapped it carefully in a bright pink drawstring pouch and put it under her pillow, anxious for tonight's visit from The Tooth Fairy.

Tonight, I slipped my hand under her pillow, thankful that she sleeps like a log, and exchanged the tooth for a crisp dollar bill and a note reading, "Nice tooth! Keep brushing! Love, The Tooth Fairy." Then I retreated into the kitchen, tiny tooth in hand.

What now? I pondered.

I know from talking to my friends that there are some moms who are not so sentimental about these matters and who would have tossed the tooth into the garbage without another thought. But for better or worse, I have a hard time releasing "things" that mean something to me, or did at some point in my life. Just last night I poured through my attic in search of old college relics in preparation for an upcoming reunion and was shocked to find what I'd saved from elementary school, high school and college.

So I stood there in my kitchen rolling the small tooth in my palm, thinking.

Not so many years ago, she fought for that tooth. Always a slow teether, I recalled the weeks and weeks of drooling and chewing. The many nights of restless sleep. The cold washcloths and Ambesol given to her to bring relief until it finally broke the surface.

We stared in wonder and awe when this tooth - the bottom center, one of her two first - made its appearance. It transferred her smile from a gummy one to a toothed one. We marveled at this. Beamed about it. We ran our fingers over it's pearly top and cooed, "Such a big girl, you are."

It marked a new phase for her: More solid foods. Crawling. A sliver of independence.

When she lost her first tooth, I dropped it into a small plastic bag and placed it carefully in the back of my top drawer. It was, after all, her first lost tooth. A big one. No question there.

But does every tooth need to be saved? There is something a bit strange and perhaps even morbid, even for a sentimental sap like me, to keep a bag of teeth in my drawer for the next 18 years. I mean, to what end? To give them to her someday? I can just picture the look on her face.

"Um, gee, thanks? Mom?" followed by her promptly tossing them into the trash herself as soon as I'm out of sight.

Yet, I recall the day I found some of my own baby teeth wrapped in tissue in the back of my mom's jewelry box. I don't know how old I was, but when I found them I recall taking them out and rolling them between my fingers, fascinated by how small they were compared to my adult teeth.

I remember the mix of feelings. Horror: Oh. My. God. She saved . . . my teeth!? And love: But she saved them. Because they are mine. Because she is my mother and I'm her daughter and she wanted to hold onto them. Because she wanted to stay connected to them somehow. Because she loves me.

Even then, I was a sap.

Now, once again, this tooth and the change it brings to her smile marks a new phase: Kindergarten.

On Tuesday, she will get on a bus at the end of our driveway - alone - and go away from us to a new school with many corridors and big kids. It is a momentous step toward independence.

So with that in mind, I walked down the hall to my bedroom, and plunked this tooth, this symbol of babyhood, into the bag next to its twin. I do not know at what point I will stop saving them.

But not tonight.



Out of curiosity, what do YOU do with your children's lost teeth?

From 6 pounds to 6 years in about 66 seconds

My daughter turns 6 today. Despite me strictly forbidding her to do so, she growing up.

Fast.

* * *

It was only yesterday or so it seems, that you were born. A small, red wrinkled thing that cried a lot and never wanted to be put down.

The weeks after we first brought you home were difficult. I had read numerous baby-care books cover-to-cover but none had prepared me for the physical, mental and emotional toil known as motherhood.

The moment I laid eyes on you, I was completely in love. It was so overwhelming and unexpected. I never dreamed such a thing could be possible. Though I had loved, intensely, for many years, I had no idea my heart was capable of even more. So much more. Limitless, boundless love. Love that I know I would lay down my life to protect without a second thought.


August 17, 2003

I remember in the beginning counting your age first in days, then weeks, then eventually months. Even after your first birthday, you were “15-months-old” or “21-months-old.”


October 2004

Years didn’t really seem to matter. Years were a far-off milestone. Distant. Too far away to worry about.

Until you were two.

And then you started to do all kinds of amazing things: go down the slide all alone and go to school and get dressed by yourself.


February 2006

Years, oddly, seemed to pass even more rapidly than months. Suddenly, you were three.


July 2006

Then four.


September 2007

Now, six years later – you are so very, very different from that crying, red, wrinkled baby we brought home from the hospital. You are a girl who writes her name and reads. Who loves horses and dolls. Who plays nicely with your sister (most of the time). A girl who likes to help me weed the garden and can name most of the plants in it. A girl who knows what partially-hyrdogenated oil is and asks if something has trans fat in it before eating it.

You, my love, are a full-fledged big girl. You are:

A silly girl . . .


May 2008

A happy girl . . .


August 2009

A clever girl . . .


June 2009

A beauty . . .


August 2009

There are moments when I look at you and I still see the baby you were six years ago today. It is often a fleeting thing, like the flash of a firefly. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve seen it. Most times, I’ve probably only wished I did.

When I do, it is both a gift and a hardship: A gift to view such a clear path to the past. A hardship to know it is gone.

I need to remind myself that you still have a long way to go. Your small feet still slide and clunk around when you play dress up with my shoes. You still need to stand on a step stool to brush your teeth and you still have trouble buckling your own booster seat sometimes.

But soon, before I know it, six more years will have gone by and you’ll be 12, then 18, then 24. And while I have no doubt that each passing year will bring new joys and experiences to treasure, a piece of me will always long, always pine, always yearn for the baby you once were.

Just yesterday.


August 17, 2009

Happy birthday, baby girl!

Lazy, hazy days

My favorite season is fall, but summer runs a close second. Summer arrives and seems to say, “Hey, pull up a chair. Put your feet up. Thirsty? Have some lemonade. Eat an ice cream cone. Take a swim. Chill.”

And now that we’re past June, which was the most dismal, dreary, rainy June I can ever remember, we’ve been doing just that.

Summer seems to have a more leisurely pace than other seasons, and I say that even though I know nearly every weekend between now and mid-September is booked with some event or another.

Aside from that, we’re soaking up the summer as much as possible. We sit by the pond and watch the frogs sun themselves. We eat our lunch on a blanket in the backyard. We swim. In a matter of days, we’ll be filling buckets with wild raspberries.

Last night, we ventured into the yard to marvel at and chase fireflies. The girls ran through the nearly dark yard, arms outstretched until they closed around a firefly. They’d cup the tiny insect in their hands and peek in, watching the neon flash-flash-flash for a few seconds until they had their fill, then they’d release it into the dark.

Sometimes the bug would slip through their fingers and escape before they could steal a peek at it.

My baby, Peanut, is on the cusp of turning six. She’s lost a tooth and is entering kindergarten in a matter of weeks.

Loaf is becoming more independent by the day. She pushes my hands away repeatedly, declaring, “I can do it myself.”

There are probably only a few summers left of backyard picnics, chalk drawings on the front walkway, bubble-blowing contests and chasing fireflies through the yard.

And after that? Who knows? They will have new activities and interests that don’t involve me.

So excuse me if my blog is a bit neglected these days. I’m running, hands outstretched to see what I can catch. And hoping to get my fill of it before it slips away.

One more time, with feeling

Peanut graduated from preschool today, this time for real.

Yes, I cried.

But I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she is ready for kindergarten. Pre-K was the best thing we could have done for her. She has truly blossomed this year under the direction of one of the most amazing teachers I’ve ever seen at work.

Does this look like the face of a kid who is ready for kindergarten?









Yes, I believe it does.

Wordless Wednesday: Four years ago

Four years ago today, I looked like this:



I know.

But four years ago tomorrow, I had this:



Which was totally, completely, sincerely, 100% worth it.

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Fear and loathing in the local elementary school

Today was kindergarten registration in my town.

Last year at this time, we were debating whether to send Peanut to the pre-K program at her preschool, or send her to kindergarten. We decided on pre-K, and have not regretted it for a second. The program is excellent. She has flourished under it—gaining confidence and social skills, as well as moving her fine-motor skills much closer to where they need to be.

When the big manila envelope from the elementary school arrived two weeks ago, I shrugged it off.

“She’s ready,” I thought. “So ready.”

But there is still a problem.

You see, I am not ready.

Not ready at all.

I sat there today, in the lobby of that school. And at first I felt fine. I chatted with the other moms. I realized Peanut will likely be on the middle- to older-end of her classmates, which is great. I watched her play with a pile of toys and every so often she’d run over to me and say excitedly, “When do we go register, Mom? Is it our turn yet?”

I felt good.

She’s so ready.

Then, suddenly, the hall was filled with students. Class after class walking by us in a line. So many students. Big students. So much bigger. Taller. More mature. Boys in jeans and sports-logo shirts laughing loudly. Girls with braces (braces!!) in low-slung pants and Ugg boots.

I watched them, these children. I watched how they looked at Peanut, my daughter, with an air of superiority that comes with being the Big Fish in the pond. I saw their knowing, smug looks. I saw the way they smirked at her, undoubtedly thinking, “oh look at that little girl there, playing with toys. TOYS!" ::snicker snicker::

And as each passed a vice tightened more and more snuggly around my heart.

Fear.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of sending her out from under my wing. Fear of her being picked on, or afraid. Fear of her having no friends. Of being the odd kid. The one eating at the lunch table alone. Fear of her coming home in tears. Fear of some brute grabbing her backpack away from her and tossing it to his friend. Fear of name-calling and bullying and cliquishness.

Fear, fear.

So much fear.

I wanted to snatch her up—my baby, this child that I birthed, like, yesterday—wrap her in my arms, run from the lobby and never look back.

I sat there, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. I turned my face away from the other mothers so they would not see the tears struggling to leak from my eyes. I pressed a finger to the corner of each eye, swallowing hard, trying to keep it all in.

“Mrs. Gav?” called the woman at the front desk.

Peanut jumped up and grabbed my hand. “It’s our turn, Mommy! It’s our turn. Come on! Come on!”

She is so ready.

The question is, when will I be?